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Wednesday, May 4. 2011

by Michael Tatum

For my first column as a forty year old man, I play Merrill Garbus
and James Allan's typographical games, while wondering whether An
Horse should be filed under 'H' (recognizing the article, however
improper) or 'A' (assuming it must be something else, because it can't
be just wrong). For that matter, is Lupe Fiasco, as a nom de
rap, slotted under the first name or last name? All terribly
amusing, believe me. But will it inspire me to cherish their records?
Hey man, I'm forty years old -- I've got shit to do. Here's
what makes it onto the life list, and what doesn't.

An Horse: Walls (Mom + Pop) "Maybe it's my convict
blood," wonders young Australian expatriate Kate Cooper about her
headstrong spirit in the line that no critic will resist quoting, and
indeed, in many ways her bracing indie rock is the sound of freedom,
of a young woman happy to be out of the closet, out of her native
Brisbane and relocated to Montreal. However, given that her admirers
are complaining that this one sounds too much like the 2009 debut
Rearrange Beds, I'm more interested in the line that begins the
opener "Dress Sharply": "I have nothing new to tell you since the last
time that I wrote." This is as fine a set of songs as you'll hear all
year, musically strong and lyrically rich ("That's enough Twin
Peaks for one night" is another quotable), and I admire how Cooper
celebrates her homeland by lollygagging around in those vowels. But
ultimately, she doesn't venture too far beyond guitar-drums-no-bass,
which may be the new fashion but doesn't distinguish her musically
from the dozens of other indie rock bands with the same lineup, even
if she and drummer Damon Cox do it a little better. She needs someone
else to play against: another guitarist, another singer, a fucking
glockenspielist, something. I cheer on independent women, and
there's no crime in going it alone. But if you don't have to, why
should you? A

Beastie Boys: Hot Sauce Committee Part Two (Capitol)
Who needs another dozen plus rhymes about how dope you can rap?
Apparently, I do. With Hot Sauce Committee Part One lost to the
mists of time only to be superseded by a "sequel" that contains more
or less the same tracks, I guess we fans of the nonpareil white hip
hop trio will just have to do. But while I love a good prank just as
much as the next blogging rock critic -- and completely sympathize
with Adam Yauch, whose throat cancer diagnosis was the primary reason
for pushing back the album's release date -- I want you to consider
this quote from Yauch himself: "We just kept working and working on
various sequences for Part 2, and after a year and half of
spending days on end in the sequencing room trying out every possible
combination, it finally became clear that [the original sequencing]
was the only way to make it work." This would suggest an intimate
knowledge of your product, no? So you can't tell me that they're not
fully aware that the frontloaded first half of this record rocks like
a mutha, so much so that I don't mind that the lyrical content per se
is lax as usual when I can make it out through their studio trickery
-- the key to this band's appeal has always been their synergy, the
way they trade lines, egg each other on, raise each other up higher,
and on this record Nas and Santigold join in on the fun. But most of
the second half de-evolves into throwaways and bit pieces when it
doesn't fall back on bad habits, namely hardcore ("Lee Majors Comes
Again," almost prog-length at 3:43) and instrumentals (really guys,
don't you think "Multilateral Nuclear Disarmament" is a concept that
deserves a fully fleshed out lyric?). I'm glad that Yauch isn't down
for the count, and am actually impressed he didn't exploit his illness
with a Kanye-style annunciation. But those who wait years between
albums, for canny reasons or otherwise, ought to know
better. B+

Lupe Fiasco: Lasers (Atlantic) Mentally wipe away the
'A' spray-painted atop the white neon 'O' of the acronymic title and
you'll get an unambiguous declaration of how much the former Wasalu
Muhammad Jaco despises the album that Atlantic kept prisoner for two
years while label execs tinkered with it. His profile in
Complex is a heartbreaker -- in it, he claims the company
bullied for creative control over the record's content and subject
matter, describes the corny John Legend feature "Never Forget You" as
a "bargaining chip," and asserts that he penned the rap for "The Show
Goes On" under orders from Atlantic president Michael Kyser after he
[Kyser] played the song for him on an iPod backstage at the House of
Blues. Tragic details, to be told. But that doesn't mean the resulting
album isn't any good. True, the numerous guest stars listed on the
back cover credits suggest an album planned by committee (Skylar Grey
in particular needs to go back to whatever talent show she came from)
and Jaco overplays his hand on the retaliatory "State Run Radio" (even
the guys at Atlantic know Linkin Park are Nowheresville), but
musically and lyrically this is as strong as any of his previous
records. Calling out Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck as racists is one
thing, but calling out Obama for keeping mum while Israel bombed the
Gaza Strip is another, as is Jaco's vision of Bill O'Reilly solemnly
reading from the Koran at Malcolm Little's funeral in the wondrous
"All Black Everything." And if that's not personal enough for you, I
wonder what Kyser thinks of the remarkably direct first verse of the
hit song that Jaco disparages: "Have you ever had the feeling that you
was being had/Don't that shit make you mad/They treat you like a
slave, with chains all on your soul/And put whips up on your back/They
be lying through they teeth/Hope you slip up off your path." Bet the
man who describes himself as "a brand the fans trust" regains his
precious cred with a killer mixtape he gives away for free. Until
then, this ain't soft -- not by a long shot. A

Generation Bass: Transnational Dubstep (Six Degrees)
The mysterious DJ UMB is the man behind the Generation Bass blog,
which collects tracks and compiles megamixes documenting the UK
dubstep scene's impressive influence on global dance music. This
arresting fifteen track sampler, the cream of some three hundred plus
selections, incorporates music from regions you'd expect (India,
Japan) and ones you wouldn't (South Africa, Poland), and if you fear
ethnotechno that goes down easily and anonymously like those Buddha
Bar compilations, let it be known that both the metallic beats and
jarring noises that are dubstep's ugly gift to the world do make a
difference. Two observations: Engine EarZ Experiment's "Kaliyuga"
reminds me, as did last year's bhangra compilation on Rough Guide,
that one of the reasons India works so well in these contexts is that
sputtering tabla and sitar parts recall high energy sequencer
lines. The other is that Gypsy music -- which is naturally abrasive
anyway -- works even better. May I suggest a Balkan-specific sequel?
A

Middle Brother: Middle Brother (Partisan) I love this
band's nominal conceit -- unlike the overachievers in Monsters of
Folk, these three alt-country second-stringers know and happily accept
their limitations: in the title song, the zany "I'm gonna learn to fly
an airplane/I'm gonna make my mama proud/I'm gonna get my dad to
notice me/Even if I have to fly it into the ground" later becomes the
more pointed "But I'm gonna learn to fly an airplane/I'm gonna make my
country proud/I'm gonna send this song to Nashville/Sell my soul to a
whole new crowd." Of the three, Deer Tick's John J. McCauley is the
most accomplished songwriter: that's his clever melodic cop from
"Don't Be Cruel" that kicks off the rollicking "Me, Me, Me," his
parents snapping photos of less than picturesque European landmarks,
his gorgeous little daydream about the sexy bartender who poured last
night's beer (and why he has a hangover this morning). Delta Spirit's
Matthew Vasquez and the Dawes' Taylor Goldsmith's songs suffer by
comparison, though the former brings the wry love song "Blue Eyes" and
the latter brings the visionary breakup song "Million Dollar Bill,"
which he generously doles out one verse each to his cohorts like they
were Fairport Convention covering Basement Tapes-era Dylan. But
the nice thing about an album like this is that a plainspoken ballad
like Goldsmith's "Thanks for Nothing" shines here in varied company
the way it might not have on a Dawes record. Oh, and one more plus:
those rusty harmonies won't garner any Crosby, Stills, and Nash
comparisons. Who said that supergroups can't be super?
A

Paul Simon: So Beautiful or So What (Hear Music)
Although the efficient shuffle of "The Afterlife" had me floating on a
cloud during an afternoon in purgatory on Earth (i.e., the Oceanside
branch of the California DMV), I was initially a little put off by
reports of this album (cribbed from PR notes, I'm sure) supposedly
favoring "rhythm over melody" -- I mean come on guys, this isn't
exactly Parliament-Funkadelic here. But after immersing myself
further, I came to the conclusion that those early reviewers really
meant this album, like Simon's best records, plays the artist's gentle
singing against what for lack of a better word I'll call "grain."
Here, as Airto Moreira's percussion did on "Peace Like a River" and
Forere Motloheloa's accordion did on "The Boy in the Bubble," Simon
wisely juxtaposes his kindly tenor against Reverend J.M. Gates'
Christmas Day sermon, Karaikudi R. Mani's vocal percussion, Yacouba
Sissoko's kora, the Golden Gate Quartet's bop-bop-whoa, and Gil
Goldstein's impressionistic orchestral arrangement for the startlingly
pretty "Love and Hard Times," and the result is the man's best album
since you-know-what (no, not Blood on the Tracks). Simon's
thoughts on mortality may not be wholly original -- the conception of
heaven as an existential bureaucracy goes back at least to Kafka, and
the possibility that God views mankind as "slobs" was staged a lot
more uproariously by Randy Newman. Unlike Newman however, who deploys
the gorgeous declaration of domestic devotion "Feels Like Home" as a
plot device for his femme fatale to fuck over his luckless middle-aged
Lucifer, even though Simon counts himself among the slobs that God
benignly dismisses, he thanks Him for sending him the love of his life
anyway. I treasure Newman's Faust, and as a committed agnostic
I have no interest in wondering where I'll go when I die, if I go
anywhere at all. But Newman's cynicism will only take you so far. If
there is an afterlife, and St. Peter promises me irony once I pass
through the pearly gates, these are among the first songs I'll sing
once he hands me my harp. A

tUnE-yArDs: w h o k i l l (4AD) It's been said that
this improves on BiRd-BrAiNs' girl-and-her-dictaphone lo-fi
aesthetic, but I say that Merill Garbus is a master boatmaker who
could craft a seaworthy craft either with the full cooperation of
Lockheed Martin or stranded on a desert island making do with bamboo
trees. Garbus' assertion that the whomping "Bizness" is her
approximating Paul Simon's Graceland on a tighter budget makes
for good copy, but doesn't quite wash for two reasons. First, whomping
beats aren't exactly Simon's raison d'être. But second, Simon
(and for that matter, Vampire Weekend, to whom this album has also
been compared) appropriates "exotic" sounds to a basic pop-rock
format, while Garbus' tape loops and one-chord jams share more common
ground with Talking Heads' Remain in Light. Like the Heads,
Garbus emphasizes rhythm, not just in her looped beats, sax
lines, and vocal phrasing, but even in the hard consonants she elects
to use: coun-try, gangsta, killa. Except while
David Byrne ecstatically testifies that the world moves on a woman's
hips, Garbus is that woman, happy that her man likes her from
behind, even if every now and then she entertains dark fantasies about
the policeman who handcuffed her brother. But the crucial difference
between Garbus and her exemplars -- perhaps connected to her
femininity, but I suspect is rather an key component of who she is --
is her uncommon directness. Hard to imagine Byrne, who spent his
artistic career either pretending to (or proving he couldn't) relate
to "real people," wondering aloud why he doesn't have more black, male
friends. Byrne wouldn't live in the Big Country if you paid him
to. Garbus is slightly more ambivalent -- but not so much she's
willing to live a lie before she finds out. A

The Weeknd: House of Balloons (mixtape) Children,
this is a dubstep. Because although few reviewers have mentioned that
genre in conjunction with this free-for-now tour de force, this
is everything that I wanted the James Blake record to be: spare,
halting, textured, compelling, creepy as hell. Part of its success
rests with the production, which appropriates backing tracks from such
unfunky sources as Beach House and Siouxsie and the Banshees and
manipulates them into a haunting R&B amalgam of astonishing
subtlety and power. Most of its success however, boils down to old
fashioned conceptualization. It would be one thing if lyrics like
"Better slow down or she'll feel it in the morning/She's not the kind
of girl you'll be seeing in the morning" or "Got a brand new girl,
call her Rudolph/She'll probably OD before I show her to mama" or the
sickeningly heartfelt "Let me motherfuckin' love you," came out
of the dirty mouths of Too Short or R. Kelly. They're another thing
coming from Abel Tesfaye, who floats above the hallowed music
anonymously, faceless and raceless, with a boyishly high tenor that
evokes the kind of kid who might hit you up to buy him alcohol in
front of the local Circle K, after which he'll speed off in a hot rod
he's barely old enough to drive to participate in a glass table orgy
he'll later document in song without excising one sordid detail. With
intent, irony, and identity all question marks, this is the kind of
formal coup that an artist can really only pull off once: a portrait
of hell that doesn't deny hedonism's pleasures for a moment, addictive
music that knows the power of addiction as a gaping, endless hole that
can never be filled. If you were ever in that place, it will be a
stinging reminder of why you got there. Now you have this dance with
the devil to listen to if you dare consider going back. A+

Honorable Mentions

The Pains of Being Pure at Heart: Belong
(Slumberland) Declaring fealty "even in dreams" because it's so
much easier a commitment than one to the reality of adulthood
("Heaven's Gonna Happen Now," "Heart in Your Heartbreak," "Belong")
***

Nicolas Jaar: Space Is Only Noise (Circus) Ambient
minimalist's found sounds, piano doodles, and laryngitic percussion
are more songful than the tracks featuring his lunkheaded vocals
("Être," "Colomb," "I Got a Woman") ***

Buddy Miller: The Majestic Silver Strings (New West)
I'm still on the fence on whether his melodramatic pomo transformation
of Roger Miller's "Dang Me" is a work of accidental genius or an
unintentionally hilarious gaffe, but I will say it's the only time the
band perks up behind Buddy's otherwise wispy singing ("No Good Lover,"
"I Want to be With You Always") **

Steve Earle: I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive (New
West) Hit or miss when his subjects were love and politics, his
miss count increases when he shifts his focus to love and spirituality
("The Gulf of Mexico") *

Trash

The Feelies: Here Before (Bar/None) File this one
away with the Stones' Steel Wheels and New Order's Waiting
For the Siren's Call, middling "comeback" records that pleasantly
replicate the respective artists' better selves without a trace of
magic or necessity -- if the landmark Crazy Rhythms was the
sound of six cups of strong black coffee in a Mustang careening
through the Lincoln Tunnel, this bucolic sleeper is more like two
bottles of light beer in a canoe floating serenely atop Lake
Atsion. The idle acoustic guitar strums, which predominate, fail the
memory of Bill Million's manic attack on "Fa Cé-La," while
percussionist Dave Weckerman is completely wasted -- I'm not sure if
he's undermixed or underutilized (given the idyllic album cover,
perhaps he spent the majority of the recording relaxing in a
hammock?). And while I never considered Glenn Mercer's lyrics one of
this band's strengths, because the agitated rhythms are de-emphasized
in favor of his nasal baritone, his reliance on tired tropes becomes
more obvious, although certainly commonplaces like "find a way" and
"doing it again" were contextualized better both lyrically and
musically on 1991's definitive Time For a Witness. Even the
opening couplet that everyone likes -- "Is it too late to do it
again/Or should we wait another ten" -- doesn't even ring
mathematically true: really the line should be "Or should we wait
another twenty." Which, right, doesn't fit the meter, and would force
them to change the rhyme of the previous line to something like,
"We've got songs, we've got plenty." Which, sorry, they
don't. B

Glasvegas: Euphoric /// Heartbreak \\\ (Columbia) On
this Scottish quartet's admirable 2009 debut, James Allan set out to
prove how much empathy a former football hooligan could display toward
social workers and bullied teenagers, giving up not only a song about
an absentee father but another about a father who wails "You Are My
Sunshine" as he bemoans the murder of his only son. Here however,
empathy explodes into a full blown Jesus complex. It couldn't have
been done without Flood and Alan Moulder, who skillfully beefed up the
Pains of Being Pure at Heart's Belong (reviewed above), but
hiring them in the service of an arena rock band in love with Phil
Spector makes about as much sense as sending Steve Lillywhite to
produce a choir of pneumatic drills. Most of the blame for this turkey
however, rests on Allan himself. What amazes me is that like his
fellow countrymen in (remember them?) Idlewild, who followed the
strong, stripped-down 100 Broken Chairs with the bloated,
bombastic The Remote Part, he's following this strategy not
only because he believes, in the classic U2 fallacy, that arena rock
equals self-expression, but also because he labors under the delusion
that this is what the American audience wants -- note that as
Idlewild announced their intentions on The Remote Part with a
lead single called "You Held the World in Your Arms," he does
something similar with a cavernous, grandiloquent mess called "The
World is Yours." Elsewhere, he commendably reaches out to the gay
audience on three separate songs, but considering that the regretfully
titled "Whatever Hurts You Through the Night" was inspired by some
diabolical combination of Thelma and Louise, Melissa Etheridge,
and Berlin's "Take My Breath Away," I reserve the right to skip the
overheated boilerplate and send a check to Dan Savage and It Gets
Better. And that catch in Allan's voice -- an endearing quirk on the
debut but here an annoying affectation -- suggests a uvula so swollen
and enlarged Oscar de la Hoya could box it. C

The Strokes: Angles (RCA) After the smoke from this
bomb clears -- "comeback album" huzzahs on the cover of Spin,
remind me to hire their publicist when I publish my novel -- everyone
in Alternative Nation will be asking themselves what went wrong. The
answer is simple once you accept that their early success was
explainable less by talent than luck. It's quite possible even for
spoiled rich kids to cut a pretty good rock record -- Carly Simon did
it once. The fact that these guys could come up with an album's worth
of good material rather than one solid gold hit has less to do with
musical gifts than it does with their historical moment: certainly, if
you go back to the late '70s you'll find dozens of "new wave" bands
that put together decent platters armed with nothing but a few chords
and a snappy beat, juiced by the thrill of discovery. But sooner or
later your fans aren't going to fall for the same facile tricks --
even bands as staunchly minimalist as the Feelies and the Ramones knew
you had to build on your foundation or risk boring your converts.
Unfortunately, that kind of growth takes the ability to not only write
songs, but actually, you know, arrange them, which is beyond
these slackers' ken -- as in so many other cases, defenders are
claiming "experimental" when they really mean "unfocused," to which
I'll add such descriptors as "thin" and "tinny." But the real problem
here is the uncharismatic charlatan at the mic himself: whether
whining or screaming or whining or mumbling or whining some more,
Julian Casablancas' main frame of reference ain't the bar or the club,
it's the lounge, and that self-pitying croon he barely conceals under
that anemic snarl is his curse. Since he seems to believe "Life is
Simple in the Moonlight," perhaps he can follow Carly's lead and
record an album of standards. Let's see if Alternative Nation smells
"irony" then. C

Delicate Steve: Wondervisions (Luaka Bop)

Grails: Deep Politics (Temporary Residence)

Heidecker and Wood: Starting From Nowhere (Little Record
Company)

Micachu and the Shapes: Chopped and Screwed (Rough
Trade)

Pakistan: Folk and Pop Instrumentals 1966-1976 (Sublime
Frequencies)

Parts and Labor: Constant Future (Jagjaguwar)

The Shoes: Crack My Bones (Southern Fried)

This is the tenth installment, monthly since August 2010, totalling
231 albums. All columns are indexed and archived
here. You can follow A Downloader's
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